Little John
by UnattemptedFeat
Summary: John is de-aged. Will he be like this forever? If so, what is Sherlock going to do with him?
1. Humpty

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. One minute John was normal, and the next he...wasn't?

There was a flash of light as one of the machines in the lab activated. Sherlock heard a zapping noise, and suddenly John was gone.

Nope, scratch that. He was still there. He was just...a child!

Yep. The army doctor glory of John Watson had just morphed into a blue-eyed, sandy-haired five-year-old. Sherlock glanced down at the child, who was the spitting image of a tiny John, complete with a child-sized bomber jacket. _Well, obviously_. Sherlock thought. _He is a tiny John_.

Little John looked up at Sherlock with an equally confused expression, "Why are you looking at me like that?" John seemed to finally realize the startling height difference. "Wait a moment, did you get taller?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "You've gotten quite a bit shorter. And younger, in fact."

"What?" Sherlock pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the new John. He held it out for the child to see. "Oh my God! What...?"

Sherlock stepped cautiously towards the machine that had flashed, wary of the consequences of setting it off again. It looked like some kind of laser contraption. Maybe he and John had accidentally set it off. After all, they weren't exactly supposed to be here.

It was all for a case, as usual. A man (size 11 shoe, slight limp, science background) had been injecting his victims with a slow-acting poison. Sherlock had deduced that the man must work in some sort of lab, so he had started with the biggest one in London: the laboratory in the basement of Bart's. Evidently, Bart's lab was home to much more than just medical research.

Sherlock didn't see any kind of switch labeled 'Fix My Blogger' so he swiped three of the notebooks next to the device. He turned back to John, who was quickly beginning to lose his composure. "John, I can fix this. Let's go back to Baker Street, and I'll figure this out."

John only nodded. As they left through the back entrance- people would definitely talk if they saw this- Sherlock saw John pinch himself a couple of times, obviously hoping he was dreaming.

Back at 221B, Sherlock set to work on his experiments. He took a sample of John's hair and skin, and he cut a piece off of the jacket. He ran his tests while John just stared at the wall. All of the trails came back normal. John had been turned into a normal kid.

"Why can't we just go back to the lab and explain what happened?" John asked after Sherlock had told him what he'd found. "They can fix me."

"What if you're the first successful human trial, John?" Sherlock had already considered this. "They won't just turn you back, they'd want to study you. Besides, they may not even be able to change you back."

"Then what do we do?" John cried. "I can't stay like this forever! What did the notebooks say?"

"Turns out they were for the expresso machine prototype, not really useful to us at the moment."

A knock at the front door startled them both. They heard Mrs. Hudson answer it, and then footsteps began climbing the stairs. John bolted for the closest hiding place, Sherlock's bedroom. The door clicked shut softly behind him just as the man entered the flat.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" The man carried what looked like a medical bag. He had been dispatched in a hurry, considering the state of his jacket. He had had a bad experience with the kettle this morning, leaving spots of tea on his shirt cuffs. Slight circles under his eyes indicated he was up late the night before.

"I am. Who are you?"

"I've been sent by your brother. Something about a mishap with a de-aging ray?"

Sherlock's bedroom door opened, and John emerged. The man looked him over when he walked in. "Ah, yes. Now, Dr. Watson, if you don't mind, I'd like to give you a quick examination."

The man poked and prodded John for about ten minutes. He took more samples of his DNA. He left after assuring John that Mycroft was doing what he could to help.

"What do we do in the meantime?" John wondered aloud. "I can't go out like this!"

"Why not? Just explain that you're still you, it won't make a difference."

"Sherlock, I can't just go around telling people I've been de-aged. They'll think you've murdered me, replaced me with a five-year-old, and gone barking mad!"

"I see no reason why I can't still take you out on cases with me." Sherlock said honestly. John was still John, just a little shorter. But he still harbored his bravery, selflessness, and kindness, the qualities Sherlock admired in him.

"I'm four-and-a-half feet tall, Sherlock." John said matter-of-factly. "How do you expect me to keep up with you when you go chasing criminals across London? Hell, I can't even reach the cabinets to make a meal."

"You can still come to the crime scenes. They don't usually require running."

"You can't take a child to a crime scene!"

"You're not a child. You're still you."

"You know that, and I know that. But I'm certainly not going to be explaining _this_ to anyone else."

"How long do you think you can hide?" Sherlock retorted. "Mycroft and his minions already know. It's just a matter of time before Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson sees you."

"I will cross that bridge if I come to it. At the moment, I'm more worried about how I'm going to survive in the flat for awhile. If I can't reach the food or make a decent cup of tea, how will I function? I'm too small to do the things I normally do."

"You'll manage," Sherlock assured him. "I'm sure we have a stool around here somewhere."

After a few minutes of silence, John spoke again, "How long will I have to be like this, Sherlock? I don't think I can stand being a child forever."

"Don't worry, all the king's horses and all the king's men are onto it." Sherlock remarked lightly.

"Yes, but remember," John said solemnly. "They couldn't put Humpty back together again."


	2. Frustration

When John awoke the next morning, he was still a child. _Damn_ , he thought. As he fell asleep, he had been able to convince himself that he was in some crazy dream. John now was positive he was awake, and it scared him.

He had tried to keep it together in front of Sherlock. He figured he had done a fairly good job of seeming nonchalant about the whole thing. But in truth, he was afraid. He feared that he would be stuck like this forever. He was scared that he would never be able to go on a case with Sherlock ever again. What purpose did he have if he couldn't do that? There would be no reason for Sherlock to keep him around if he couldn't assist him.

If John couldn't be turned back, would Sherlock get bored with him? That was something John had always feared even as an adult. That one day Sherlock would realize that he didn't really need John, and he would make him leave.

Right then, John _really_ needed a cup of tea. Thankfully, he didn't have to go very far. He had fallen asleep on the couch. Sherlock was nowhere in sight, so he must have gone off on a case. And of course, because John was a child, he couldn't go with him. John scooted a stool under the cabinet and climbed up onto it. He could reach the cabinets quite easily now. John leaned forward and opened one, rummaging for the tea bags.

"John!" John started violently at the outburst, whirling around to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. His sudden movements threw him off-balance, and the stool lurched to the side. John scrambled to grab the counter, but his fingers slipped. Long, wiry arms shot out of nowhere and caught him before he could hit the ground.

Sherlock set him down and glared at him. "What do you think you were doing?" He scolded.

"I was making tea." God, this was so embarrassing. He couldn't even make a cup of tea by himself. John was starting to feel a little useless, even though he knew it was irrational. He would be back to normal soon, and then he could make as many cups of tea as he wanted. Maybe he'd even make Sherlock one to celebrate.

"John, I was kidding about the stool." Sherlock said seriously. "That was dangerous, you shouldn't have done it. Why didn't you just ask me to make it for you?"

"Your tea tastes about as good as the Thames," John remarked. "Besides, I thought you went out on a case or something."

"I was in my bedroom thinking. I wouldn't have left you alone, not when you're like this."

"Don't inconvenience yourself on my account, Sherlock." John already felt bad enough as it was. "The Yarders still need you to tell them how stupid they are."

Mrs. Hudson burst into the flat without warning, "My word, what was that noise? Sherlock, did you blow something up again?" She came into the kitchen and stopped short. Her eyes flew to John. "Sherlock, who is this?"

Sherlock hesitated. John decided it was just best to go with the truth, "It's me, Mrs. Hudson. It's John."

Mrs. Hudson didn't look nearly surprised as John thought she should, "Oh, you poor dear, what has Sherlock done to you?"

"I didn't do it!" Sherlock cried. "It was a machine at Bart's, not me."

"Not you directly, Sherlock, but weren't you the one who dragged John to wherever it happened? You are always pulling him along into trouble."

"Mrs. Hudson, I went because I wanted to, not because Sherlock made me." John hated how everyone always assumed that Sherlock was some dominant alpha, and John was his submissive pet who couldn't think for himself. John enjoyed helping Sherlock, even if it did mean he was sometimes in danger. But he didn't just bend to Sherlock's every will. In fact, John was almost the guiding voice in Sherlock's life, since he refused to listen to his older brother. John was the one who made sure Sherlock ate, slept, and stayed away from cigarettes.

"If you say so, dearie." John sighed, knowing he wouldn't getting anywhere if he argued. "Now, you better make sure Sherlock takes good care of you while you're small. I don't want to hear that you've been hurt."

"I'm still me." John said, getting slightly annoyed now. "I can take care of myself."

"Not at that size." Mrs. Hudson insisted. "Dearest, you're just going to get used to having some help. I'm downstairs, if you need me." With that, she left them.

Sherlock's phone buzzed from inside the fridge. Sherlock ignored it and went to the living room, leaving John in the kitchen.

"Aren't you going to check that?" John asked.

"No."

"It could be important. It could be a case." John was already walking to the fridge.

"Someone will come if they want me."

John opened the fridge door, finding it mercifully easy to do. He found Sherlock's mobile amongst what looked like fried fingernails. He opened the new message and read it aloud.

"'Urgent case for you. On my way.' It's from Lestrade." John walked into the living room and dropped Sherlock's phone onto his chest. "I guess I'll be in my room until you two leave."

He went to walk away but was stopped by a hand catching his wrist.

"Why can't you stay? It's only Lestrade. He won't tell anyone."

"I know he wouldn't. I just don't want him to know at all. This isn't exactly my most shining moment, Sherlock. I would have preferred that Mrs. Hudson hadn't found out either. I don't need to give people another reason to think I'm just your little pet, and I can't take care of myself."

"Who thinks that?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed.

John didn't answer out loud, but his thoughts listed names. _Mycroft_ , _Donovan_ , _Anderson_ , _Mrs. Hudson_ , _most of the people who read my blog_.

"I believe you'll find that people don't actually think that. And if they do, they don't matter, and you shouldn't take stock in what they think."

Before John could answer, they heard a knock at the door. John pulled away from Sherlock and started towards his room, but he was held back again.

"Sherlock, let me go!" He twisted in Sherlock's grip, all the while cursing his lost strength. It was like fighting a bodybuilder while he was this size.

"No." Sherlock said simply.

John could hear Lestrade exchange a greeting with Mrs. Hudson, and then footsteps as he started up the stairs.

"Sherlock!" John whispered, frantically. "Sherlock, please!"

The door opened.


	3. Care

_Before John could answer, they heard a knock at the door. John pulled away from Sherlock and started towards his room, but he was held back again._

 _"Sherlock, let me go!" He twisted in Sherlock's grip, all the while cursing his lost strength. It was like fighting a bodybuilder while he was this size._

 _"No." Sherlock said simply._

 _John could hear Lestrade exchange a greeting with Mrs. Hudson, and then footsteps as he started up the stairs._

 _"Sherlock!" John whispered, frantically. "Sherlock, please!"_

 _The door opened._

Sherlock truly did not understand why John was so embarrassed about his condition. It's not like it was going to be permanent. Mycroft's men would find a way to fix it. So why did he care who knew about it?

Lestrade was standing very confused in the doorway. Sherlock could tell that his mind had quickly jumped to the correct conclusion, that this child was actually _John_ , but that he was trying to convince himself otherwise.

"It is John, Lestrade." Sherlock told him. "He's been de-aged, but Mycroft's looking into it. He should be back to normal any day now."

Lestrade took a deep breath, "You two never cease to surprise."

John relaxed, and Sherlock let his arm go, figuring he wouldn't bolt now.

"Anyways, I've got a case for you. Hopefully you'll find it interesting, Sherlock. The body's already been moved from the scene, but maybe you can find something anyways." Sherlock could see Lestrade's attempt to act as if everything was perfectly normal. The Inspector handed Sherlock a file. He accepted it and began to flip through.

"So how are you, John?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm good, waiting for a cure, but good."

"Glad to hear you're good. Now how are you _really_ feeling?" Lestrade's voice dropped low, and Sherlock had to strain to eavesdrop. Sherlock attempted to look as engrossed in the file as possible.

Sherlock could feel John glance at him, "To be honest, I'm a little scared, Greg. What if this is permanent?"

"It won't be, I'm sure."

"But if it is..." John continued. "What am I going to do? I can't go to work like this. I can't come to crime scenes."

"I'm sure once we explained the situation, we could get you access to the scenes." Lestrade sounded like he was trying to convince himself just as much as John.

"Yeah, right." John probably rolled his eyes. "What purpose do I have if I can't help him? How long will it take him to drop me when I'm not interesting anymore?"

Sherlock forced himself to stay calm. Did John really think Sherlock cared for him so little? Sherlock knew that he wasn't particularly good in the emotions area, but he thought he made it perfectly clear that he cared about John. He tried to remember to not leave human body parts in the microwave. He mostly kept the kitchen table clean. He even endeavored to play his violin quietly when he was thinking before sunrise.

"I don't think he'd do that." Lestrade whispered. "I know he isn't exactly a cuddly guy, but I think he actually sees you as a friend. He'd be an idiot not to. Somehow you manage to live with guy, solve crimes with him, and you stay sane. I don't know how you do it."

"He's not the freak your subordinates think he is." John remarked. "He doesn't often show his heart, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have one."

"I think you're the only he lets in, John. He trusts you."

"Well, I'm better than a skull."

An awkward silence followed his comment, so Sherlock deemed it time for him to talk, "Well, Lestrade, this definitely seems interesting." What was this case about? Sherlock quickly scanned the file. Oh, a child had been killed. Apparently the killer had abducted the child a week before his death, kept him hostage, killed him, and then dumped his body in the Thames. It _was_ very interesting.

"Glad you think so, will you help me?" Lestrade rose, straightening his coat.

Sherlock shot a quick glance at John, "Yes, I think I will. Coming, John?" Sherlock got up and shrugged on his coat, tying his scarf and flipping his collar up.

"Sherlock, we've discussed this." John sighed, the adult emotion of maturity clashing oddly with his child's features. "I can't go with you."

"I don't see why not." Lestrade replied. "I'll call ahead. I think the techs are about finished up. No one will see you."

"I don't know, Greg." John was determined to be the cautious one then.

"John, please." Sherlock put up his puppy-dog eyes. Apparently, John thought they were adorable when Sherlock used them to get something he wanted. He didn't understand the appeal, but if John could be manipulated with them. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

"Alright, Sherlock." The detective could tell that, no matter how John protested, he was itching to prove that he was still useful. Though, Sherlock didn't see why he had to. John was still John. He was still his blogger, friend, conscience. None of that had changed.

The moment they got to the crime scene, Sherlock set to work. John watched as he did his deductions on the child, the dock, and the surrounding water. He stood to the side with Lestrade, who, as promised, was the only other person there. It was very windy, and the air was cold. Once again, John was grateful that the ray had also shrunk his clothes. He might need to get some extras though.

Sherlock had just rolled the boy over when a sound made John's heart clench with fear.

A car!

John whirled around to see a police cruiser making its way towards them. It was still a few hundred yards away, but John could tell that it was definitely coming to the crime scene. He exchanged a horrified look with Lestrade, who shouted, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock snapped out of whatever reverie he had been caught in. When he saw the car, his eyes widened.

"Sherlock, what do we do? They can't see him!" Lestrade yelled, clutching at his hair in frustration.

John did the only thing he could think of doing. It only so happened that it was also the stupidest.


	4. Avoid

_John whirled around to see a police cruiser making its way towards them. It was still a few hundred yards away, but John could tell that it was definitely coming to the crime scene. He exchanged a horrified look with Lestrade, who shouted, "Sherlock!"_

 _Sherlock snapped out of whatever reverie he had been caught in. When he saw the car, his eyes widened._

 _"Sherlock, what do we do? They can't see him!" Lestrade yelled, clutching at his hair in frustration._

 _John did the only thing he could think of doing. It only so happened that it was also the stupidest._

He dove into the water and swam under the dock. He latched onto one of the columns and hung on for dear life. He could hear a new pair of feet stomping along the dock above him.

"Only brave enough to come out after the professionals are finished, Freak." He recognized the voice of Sally Donovan.

"I asked him, Donovan." Lestrade corrected. "What are you doing here?"

"She came here to help you to get away from Anderson." Sherlock answered for her, and probably more truthfully than she would have. "Another lovers' spat, it seems."

"I was actually just about to pop off. We were just finishing up." Lestrade informed her.

"I think I'll get a cab. I'm not quite done here." Sherlock said.

"Alright, text me if you find something." John heard four feet move away down the dock. Just in time too, the water was very chilly. He was probably going to get sick because of this, but he would rather get pneumonia than have Donovan find out he'd been turned into a child. He would never hear the end of it from her and Anderson if that happened. The sound of the two cruisers starting and driving the way were a godsend. He swam out from under the dock and accepted Sherlock's hand of assitance.

"John, that was the stupidest thing you have ever done!" Sherlock whipped out his phone and sent a quick text.

John's teeth wouldn't stop chattering as he tried to speak, "I c-c-c-couldn't-t-t l-let her s-s-see m-me."

Sherlock swore and bundled John into his arms, not caring about getting his own clothing wet. John nestled into the consulting detective and tried to calm his chattering. Sherlock was running for the street now, fighting the biting wind. A black car was waiting at the curb, and Sherlock leapt into it.

He set John on the seat and produced an afghan, which he draped over the shivering child. John curled up into the smallest ball he could manage.

"What have you done, Sherlock?" John could see the tip of Mycroft's umbrella in his peripheral vision.

"I didn't do anything!" Sherlock snarled, his customary tone with his older brother. "He jumped into the freezing Thames to avoid being seen."

"That was quite an imaginative escape. And an effective one, I dare say."

"He wasn't spotted, but he'll probably get pneumonia because of this." Sherlock stroked the soaked, but quickly warming, child's hair. He probably didn't realize he was doing it.

"Pneumonia in a child's body is a nightmare." Mycroft frowned. "That's why you'll be pleased to hear that we are close to finding the cure. I estimate John has to be a child for no more than four more hours."

John gave a sigh of relief. "Thank God!"

"Indeed." Sherlock agreed.

"Would you care to wait at the Diogenes'?" Mycroft offered.

"That would be great, thank you." John said before Sherlock could bite a scathing refusal.

No one questioned the presence of a child at the Diogenes'. John wasn't even sure that any of the gentlemen looked up from whatever they were doing.

Four hours of waiting wasn't as bad as John had anticipated. Sherlock and Mycroft played chess, and that in itself was entertaining to watch. They had moved to the Stranger's Room, so sneering deductions were interchanged during the game.

There was a knock just as John was starting to nod off. His impromptu swim had made him tired, and he could feel himself getting a little feverish. He just hoped that he would be turned back before he fully succumbed to the illness. He wanted to handle it as an adult, when he could actually reach the paracetamol.

A man in a lab coat rushed in, toting an important looking metal case. He leaned down and whispered something in Mycroft's ear. Mycroft frowned, and Sherlock mirrored his expression, having heard the man's words.

The man with the lab coat then approached John. He wore a nameplate that read: Dr. A. Morgan. He set the case on a table and opened it. Dr. Morgan produced a syringe and rolled up John's sleeve.

"Wait a moment." John ripped his arm from the man's grasp. "What did you tell Mycroft?"

Dr. Morgan hesitated and glanced to the British Government, who nodded solemnly.

"You see, Dr. Watson, it's like this..."

"Tell me, Doctor." John crossed his arms, hating that he was a child. This probably didn't look intimidating in the slightest, merely frustratingly adorable.

"Well..."


End file.
